A Prince to be Feared: The love story of Vlad Dracula (25 page)

He was silent. The rain pattered down on the ground, splashing up over her hand, cascaded onto her face in a thousand tiny blows.

He said, “There are things I don’t tell you. The blood of battle, the harshness of justice and punishment. They are my cross, my burden. Not yours. And not fit to be yours.”

She turned her head to look at him. “But this is
you
, Vlad. Not what you did, what was done to you.”

He gazed straight ahead, his black hair plastered against his face and shirt. “Still my cross, my burden.”

“But not your shame.”

She thought his breath caught. She couldn’t tell where, if anywhere, tears mingled with the rain on his face. She reached out and covered the hand which lay clenched in his lap. It turned in hers and gripped.

“I know that. And yet to cover it, I took on another. I shouldn’t have done it when you were there. And yet you know what I am. You’ve always known.”

“No saint,” she whispered, turning into him. “And no monster.”

His arms closed around her, holding her hard to his sodden chest. The rain continued to fall, but still they sat there, soaking it up like comfort, like love.

***

Winter closed in on Wallachia, partially stemming the flood of letters from Miklós and from Countess Hunyadi recommending Ilona’s and her mother’s return to Transylvania, if not to Hungary itself.

By spring, Ilona had been granted a foretaste of what her life with Vlad Dracula was likely to be: risky, exciting, exhilarating, punctuated with alternating periods of total fear and utter bliss. Like the sleigh ride Vlad had once described it.

With the colder weather and longer residence at Tîrgovi
ş
te, there were fewer opportunities for physical intimacy. But Vlad still made it possible, taking her on horseback through the snow to a cave he’d discovered as a boy beneath the overhanging roots of a willow. There, wrapped in cloaks and horse blankets, to the rippling sounds of the lake that threatened to flood them, he made exquisite love to her before leaving for Giurgiu and another meeting with a very different representative of the sultan, the soldier and chief falconer, Hamza Pasha.

No one was happy about this meeting. Originally, it was planned for Tîrgovi
ş
te, but at the last moment, Hamza requested the prince come instead to a place nearer the Ottoman-held fortress of Giurgiu. Presumably to help allay any fears of an Ottoman trap, a Greek-born Ottoman scholar called Thomas was sent to escort him.

“I don’t care that the actual meeting will be on Wallachian soil,” Carstian said firmly, when Thomas—who’d made a point of removing his headgear well before entering the princely presence—had been duly greeted and sent away to refresh himself. “It’s a trap.”

“Of course it is,” Vlad agreed.

“So don’t go,” Ilona commanded, stung by his lighthearted response. To her, the matter was simple.

“Forewarned is forearmed,” Vlad said. “This way, I find out more—and put the Ottomans firmly in the wrong if they do try anything. Carstian, I need the cavalry to follow us at a discreet distance. With the usual scouts. But stay out of sight.”

There were no fond farewells. The interlude in the lakeside cave that morning had to serve as that. With no more than a formal hand kiss for herself and her mother, Vlad rode off with Thomas and their very few attendants.

By nightfall, messengers returning from the cavalry unit had confirmed the ambush. After a wretched night of fear, Ilona learned that Vlad had survived it and that both Thomas and Hamza Pasha were on their way to Tîrgovi
ş
te as prisoners. But still there was no sign of Vlad, and Ilona, discovering partial news to be worse than none, feared for life-threatening injuries instead.

Eventually, Vlad descended on the palace without warning, sweeping into the hall in a wave of euphoria and plans. Although he spared Ilona a quick smile of apology and comfort for herself alone, it was clear that his mind was elsewhere.

“It’s begun,” he told his boyars, who scuttled from all over the palace in his wake to sit at the table informally with him. “I’ve taken back Giurgiu.”

“With so few men?” Turcul stared at him. Everyone stared at him, except the officers present who had been with him, who grinned with pride in their prince. “How did you manage that?”

Vlad winked. “I speak fluent Turkish. When I commanded them to open the gates, they imagined I was one of their commanders. By the time they discovered their mistake, it was too late. We were inside, and they, taken by surprise, were easily defeated.”

“Was that wise?” asked one of the older boyars uneasily. “A bold move, I agree, but it alienates the sultan beyond…”

“The sultan is already alienated. Some letters of mine to the King of Hungary fell into Ottoman hands—so the sultan knew I wasn’t negotiating in good faith. That much I learned from Thomas. The sultan knows about my marriage and my commitment to force this crusade against him. So, taking Giurgiu is a first and necessary step.”

His gaze swept round the assembled boyars, glittering but deadly serious. Ilona, still partially numb from relief at his return, felt her stomach begin to churn all over again.

“Because he
will
come against us now,” Vlad assured them. “Between now and the spring, I want all the Danube crossing points destroyed, and all the river fortresses in our hands. It gives us a head start. And with the sultan busy fighting in Trebizond, it’s likely we’ll have a few months’ grace.”

His excitement was infectious. Ilona felt it, rose with it. And yet she wondered if he even remembered now that spring was to be the time of their wedding. Instead, it seemed likely to be the time of a major war.

Chapter Twenty-One

Wallachia, 1462

Timing, Vlad knew, was everything. Familiar prebattle excitement galloped in his veins, urging him to immediate action, to assuage the battle yearning of his restive soldiers. But through the darkness, his eyes and his mind still operated with crystal clarity. They had to if he and his men were to survive this night. And so he held them back and made them wait in total silence until the time was right.

From the hill forest, he watched and listened until the sultan’s busy camp drifted slowly into the same silence as his men. The village of tents was a mere blur in the night, but the pattern was already carved in Vlad’s mind.

He’d hoped never to let them come so far, had hoped to frighten them from ever crossing the Danube by a show of force made up of his own and the Hungarian army. But Matthias had dragged his feet, and the sultan had managed to cross the river by night several miles away from where Vlad watched.

There had been an inevitability about that. Sultan Mehmed, the Conqueror of Constantinople, having earlier sent a lesser force against Vlad and seen it easily defeated, had come in person with a vast army to avenge the humiliation. And so the two forces had glared at each other across the mighty river, the Ottomans unable to cross because Vlad had destroyed all the major crossing points over the winter. Not well enough, it seemed, for the Ottomans had secretly moved position, crossed by boat, and surprised him by night.

Well, now it was his turn to do the same. And if he succeeded, there would be no more retreating, no more burning of his own country, his own crops, no more poisoning his own wells and rivers to keep them from sustaining the invaders.

The time was right.

Raising his hand high and holding it there for a count of ten, he thrust it forward, and without further invitation, his horse began to move under him.

Exactly as planned, they began slowly, silently, picking their way free of the forest cover. The sky was on their side: a new moon and plenty of cloud made the night as dark as possible, veiling the attack until the danger of being spotted by lookouts was just too great.

Vlad gave the order, low voiced, heard it repeated among the men following. In an instant, it seemed, the torches flared into dazzling light. The path to the sultan’s camp was clear, and when his bodyguard raised his torch high, he knew with relief that it could be done.

As planned, the slow advance turned into a gallop. Even before the sentries were properly awake, they were dead, and Vlad’s cavalry stormed into the sultan’s camp. Now the shouting began, not just the panicked screams of the Ottomans, but the deliberately blood chilling cries of the Wallachians, the blare of trumpets and drums.

Vlad wielded his sword with efficiency. He knew he did because it dripped dark red in the torchlight. But the slaughter was almost automatic. His real attention was on maintaining the tight formation of his men—if they spread out, they were more likely to be killed by the wakening Ottomans—and on leading them unerringly to the sultan’s own tent.

Vlad knew his enemy. He knew he already inspired terror in their hearts. Although his force was far smaller, they never knew where he would attack next, and his raids were always devastating. Because he had killed Hamza and Thomas, they called him Kazugli Bey—the Lord Impaler. He played on that, leaving them other such “presents” whenever he attacked and captured anyone of importance. He knew its effect on his impressionable enemy.

But more than that, he knew the probable layout of their camp, and observation had confirmed the sultan’s whereabouts.

“Here!” he yelled in triumph. It had to be. The biggest and best-guarded group of tents in the camp. At once, his men formed up, and the real killing began. Using every weapon they had, from swords and daggers to rearing horses’ hooves and the vilest war cries, they attacked the terrified guards. As planned, torches were thrown onto the tents as people spilled out of them, and Vlad, galloping from tent to tent in the searing heat, searched desperately for anyone resembling Mehmed. They’d been boys together once, not friends perhaps, but there had been a certain guarded respect amid the fierce rivalry. It made no difference. None of that would stop Vlad killing him.

But Mehmed also knew Vlad. By the time the prince realised his mistake, the best of their advantage had vanished. The sultan had swapped tents. Vlad knew it when he became aware through the smoke of the Ottoman soldiers forming thickly around one of the lesser tents close by.

Probably, Mehmed hadn’t really believed it would happen, but he’d taken the precaution anyway. Now Vlad’s task was more or less impossible, but it wasn’t yet time to give up. Yelling orders above the din of battle and the crackle of fire, he wheeled around and led the charge on the sultan’s protectors.

The battle waged for hours. Several times, Vlad glimpsed the petrified face of the sultan behind the rows of fallen and fighting soldiers. The man for whom Ottomans and Romanians were dying. He even sent his dagger flying straight and sure into the melee, but a soldier took it in the breast for him.

Another glance at the sky told Vlad it was time to go before the failure of his task turned into a rout of his soldiers. He called the retreat.

“What now?” gasped Gales, who had become one of his most trusted commanders, as they withdrew speedily back to the forest, still in good order.

“Now?” Vlad repeated. “The war goes on. We will harry them out, with or without our allies. For the moment, you hold the men here, stay in cover. Do
not
attack without my order. I ride to Tîrgovi
ş
te, to do what I must before the sultan arrives.”

***

Ilona, still not Princess of Wallachia although many of the lesser people had begun to call her so, didn’t feel that she was still waiting. Matthias had again postponed the wedding until the war was over, forcing his decision by adding a new insistence that Vlad change his religion rather than Ilona hers.

Which was a wily trick. At a time of national crisis, with the Ottomans at his door trailing his brother as an alternative prince in their wake, Vlad could not afford to offend his people by renouncing Orthodoxy in favour of hated Roman Catholicism. But almost to her surprise, Ilona found it made little difference to her. Living in a country both torn and lifted by war waged against a cruel invader, she adopted that country fully as her own. She made her own tasks, organising hospitals in Tîrgovi
ş
te for the wounded who drifted in from the surrounding countryside, making sure the available food in the city was evenly and continually distributed.

In the beginning, Maria had been a huge help in this work, but as time went on and the Ottomans grew closer, she became increasingly less use. Instead, she bent all her energies on persuading Ilona and her mother to flee into the mountains with her.

Though Ilona refused without a struggle, she did agree that Mihnea should be taken to a place of safety. And so Maria took her son and stepson into the latter’s mountain lands to wait for the end of the war.

Maria wasn’t the first to advise her to leave. In the spring, Countess Hunyadi paid an unexpected visit to Tîrgovi
ş
te. Officially, she brought Vlad Matthias’s love, encouragement, and support. Unofficially, she told her sister-in-law and niece to come home with her immediately. And when Ilona refused, she had simply taken the battle to Vlad.

“You were too eager in this,” she told Vlad severely. “The king’s first priority is to bring home the Crown of St. Stephen from the Emperor Frederick. Until that happens, I doubt he’ll be able to give you the help you want. Countess Szilágyi and Ilona must return with me for their own safety until this matter is resolved.”

But Vlad, even as a boy, had never been the sort she could influence by intimidation or her own brand of good sense.

“I have every faith in the king to do what is right,” he’d said smoothly. “As for the countess and Ilona…”

“We will be staying here,” Ilona had interrupted flatly. Her presence in Wallachia, after all, might force Matthias to intervene against his will. Aunt Erzsébet’s presence here proved the possibility.

“That is entirely a matter for your mother,” Vlad said coolly. “If she wishes to depart, I can spare a small escort to the Transylvanian border. For myself, I can only assure you that when the Ottomans come, I will be ready. They shall not have Wallachia, and from that one circumstance, Hungary will remain free.”

While Vlad and Erzsébet had stood glaring at each other, Countess Szilágyi had glanced uncertainly at Ilona, who shook her head imperceptibly.

“We will remain until the wedding,” she said.

And so Countess Hunyadi had departed alone. And Matthias, still negotiating for his crown, had been no help whatsoever. Vlad and his people fought alone, a war that involved huge sacrifices from everyone. Masses of people had been evacuated into the mountains to keep them safe and to keep them fed, for Vlad burned everything as he retreated, leaving neither food nor clean water nor people. It broke Ilona’s heart, as she knew it broke his, for he was destroying much of what he had achieved for his country. And yet he did it without regret, because the alternative was unthinkable.

Ilona hadn’t so much as laid eyes on Vlad for weeks. Carstian was in charge of Tîrgovi
ş
te’s defences, which had been massively strengthened over the winter and spring. He’d prepared for a long siege, which everyone had hoped would never happen, though with every passing day, it seemed more likely that it would.

And then, when she least expected it, Vlad rode into Tîrgovi
ş
te with a substantial part of his army. Emerging from the hospital one morning, she saw them trot smartly past in a long, bristling line. If Vlad was among them, she’d already missed him, but a quick search of the thin, exhausted faces closest to her told her much of what she needed to know.

Hurrying by backstreets and alleys, she arrived at the palace as the soldiers made their way to stables and camps. Anxiously, she dodged through them. Once, recognising a face, she couldn’t resist asking, “Is the prince with you? Is all well?”

“Yes, the prince is here. And it could be worse,” was the laconic response. A smile of some pride in the exhausted face gave her some relief, some hope that all was not yet lost.

Even before she entered the hall, she heard his voice. It might have been sheer relief or the fact that she hadn’t seen him in weeks, but her heart began to beat faster. And when she saw him, her legs suddenly stopped working.

He stood with Carstian and some of the other boyars and commanders, accepting a cup of wine from a servant. Others were scurrying to put food on the table. While he talked with all of his old energy, giving news and demanding it, Ilona stood still and gazed at him.

Still in half armour, as if he lived in it these days, he’d uncovered his head, letting his hair flow around his powerful shoulders. Like his men, he looked tired and lean, but there was no defeat in his glittering green eyes and only humour and mild regret in the story he was telling of a night attack on the Ottoman camp, which had only just failed to kill the sultan.

“It’s a pity,” he allowed. “Because even now they’d have been on their way home if we’d got him. But still we achieved something, and all is not well in the Ottoman ranks. They’re starving and thirsty and completely demoralised. Unfortunately…” Uncannily, he glanced away from Carstian and saw her.

At once, the glitter of his eyes melted into something much warmer. He didn’t smile, but his gaze continued to hold hers as he continued. “Unfortunately, they are heading now to Tîrgovi
ş
te. It’s time to put our plan into action, Carstian. We may yet avoid a siege here.”

“And you, sir? Are you staying?”

Please stay. Please.

“I’m better employed with the cavalry,” he said after a significant pause. “What news here?”

“More messages of support and admiration from all over Europe,” said Carstian wryly. “From England and the emperor, from the pope himself. Nothing from the King of Hungary.”

Like the others, he had found the direction of the prince’s gaze, and with their joining it, the spell was broken. Vlad took a step nearer her, and her own legs managed to move forward again.

His fingers were warm on hers. Stupidly, she felt them tremble in his light grasp. And yet it was a formal greeting before his people. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Perhaps it was imagination that felt secretly ardent pressure.

“I have missed you,” he said softly, and having no words except to repeat his own, she could only blush. He began to smile. But, remembering where he was, he added, “However, it is time for us to bid farewell. You and your lady mother must go now into Transylvania until the war is over.”

She’d known it would come. And yet it struck her like a blow.

“Mihnea and Maria must go too,” he ordered relentlessly.

“They’re already in the mountains. Let us go to Poenari,” she asked in a rush. Because she’d thought it all out already. “We’ll be safe there, surely, and if the Ottomans do come, it’s closer to the border for escape into Transylvania.”

Something changed in his eyes then, a leap of emotion that went beyond gladness that she wanted to stay; it was almost recognition, though of what she didn’t know, only that it warmed to her toes.

Then his heavy eyelids came down, and he said ruefully, “That one I must leave up to your mother…” What more he would have added, she never found out, for the clattering of horses’ hooves and a shout in the courtyard outside distracted his and everyone else’s attention.

Ilona shivered, for no reason except it seemed no news was good news. Unless Matthias…

Slowly, Vlad’s hand fell away from hers. The door swung open, and Turcul strode in.

“Sir, thank God,” he uttered as his wild gaze fell at once on his prince. “I thought I might have to ride south to find you.”